A Whole New Level of Pathetic
by starofoberon
Summary: Valentine's Day challenge for SussiRay on CCOAC, NOW COMPLETE. Had space permitted, was tempted to call it "Indiana Hotchner and the Planet of Easily Annoyed Women." Which tells you all you really need to know, right there
1. Meet Mr Sensitive

Usual disclaimers: Wow, how I _wish_ that these characters were mine, the show would be so freakin' awesome, but they're not, yada yada

This is my response to the Valentine's Day Challenge on CCOAC. Given the fact that it's being written for SussiRay, the Queen of Elegant PWP, I've opted not to embarrass myself by trying to cover the same territory. So, T for language.

It is in four short chapters and will be posted in its entirety by February 14th

My assigned pairing, Hotchner and Prentiss

My assigned song prompt: "Physical," Olivia Newton-John

My assigned plot prompts: candlelight dinner, single red rose, lace underwear

**A Whole New Level of Pathetic**

**Chapter One**

**Meet Mr. Sensitive**

Aaron Hotchner, veteran of dozens of SWAT standoffs, hundreds of confrontations with armed psychopaths, and a thousand courtrooms, stared uncertainly at the blonde woman raging in his kitchen and wondered how in the hell he had become translocated to the Planet of Pissed-Off Chicks.

Really.

Because this was his third feminine tantrum of the morning, and it was only seven-forty. He hadn't left his house. He hadn't shaved. He was still in his _bathrobe_, for Chrissakes. And they all seemed to presume that since he was a profiler, he was automatically interested in – let alone attuned to – their needs, their wants, their frustrations. A Mr. Sensitive for all seasons, with no issues or hot buttons of his own.

He sighed heavily. _They can't _all_ be on the rag today, can they?_

At least, none of them had been actually yelling _about_ him. Not yet, anyway. Just _at_ him, Mr. Sensitive, the hapless recipient of their outrage at someone else - outrage that they confided to him at top volume garnished with Anglo-Saxonisms.

Even Douma, the cleaning services rep who twice a week rescued his house from complete chaos and sepsis – Douma, for whom English was a third language, after some native African tongue and French – had singed his ears this morning with four-letter words she used like a native. Hers had been the first call, with apologies for running late, which quickly deteriorated into a rant about the thoughtlessness of sons, of whom she had eight, five of them still living at home with her.

Followed quickly by Prentiss, that most professional of agents, calling to remind him she had meetings at Hoover throughout the morning and she would catch up on her reports whenever she made it in to Quantico. She was under some unidentified pressure at the moment – both Aaron and David had noticed it – but, being Emily, she wasn't much for the whole sharing bit. Although she had certainly let him know over the phone precisely what her opinion was of a handful of Hoover Building bureaucrats.

And now it was Jessica Brooks, Haley's sister and Jack's caregiver when Aaron himself was unavailable, driven incoherent - but not, alas, speechless – by her boyfriend-almost-fiance-at-least-until-now, Lionel. Lionel, who had plummeted from _one true love_ to _scum-sucking shitheel asshole_ by suggesting that Jessica … go have a nice dinner at Berceuse with one of her gal pals?

Gotta be a hormone storm out there somewhere.

"Well, fine," Jessica stormed. "You think it's such a fucking nice idea, you go have a fucking candlelight fucking dinner! Knock yourself out!" She slammed down a mauve engraved gift card on the kitchen counter and stomped off to collect her nephew.

Tempting as it might have been to flee – and he entertained the notion several times in the ensuing ninety seconds – he stood his ground to ensure that his son caught none of whatever vibes his Aunt Jess was leaking that morning. But no, Jess was all warmth and good humor when she returned, holding Jack's hand with her right hand, and a large shopping bag tucked horizontal under her left arm. The odor of Elmer's Glue assaulted his nostrils as they passed, probably from some school project Jack had done while the team was still in Oregon.

Relieved at the return to normality, he picked up the small rectangle of pasteboard. "Don't forget your gift card," he called after her.

She didn't so much _turn_ as _spin_, with an expression he thought he had seen on demons in horror flicks. "Take it," she spat. "Take it, pitch it, burn it, shove it up–" She glanced at Jack and backed down on both the volume and the fury. "Or take somebody out to dinner. Do something to patch up your own goddamn miserable social life."

_Ah_, he thought, folding his arms across his chest and leaning one hip against the center kitchen island as he watched them leave. _That went well_.

He glanced at the card – Jess was turning down a completely paid-for candlelight dinner, good for tonight only, and valued at $300. Even in DC, and even at Berceuse prices, you could have a pretty good time on $300. He started to throw it away, then halted – three hundred is three hundred, and surely she'll change her mind – then stopped completely.

Art project crap littered the wastebasket. Scraps of pink and red construction paper. Silver ribbon, gold glitter, and pieces of white paper doily.

He checked the date on the invitation: Monday, February 14, 2011.

_Ahhh. The pieces begin to come together._

Jessica is expecting a ring from Lionel. Lionel invites her to an elaborate candlelight Valentine dinner at Berceuse. Jess can see _he-went-to-Jared's_ in her future. Lionel cancels out to visit his ex-wife, who totaled her Harley and is in the hospital. Lionel says, "Take a girlfriend."

Aaron can see castration in Lionel's future.

_My own miserable goddamn social life_, he thought bitterly. _Really? She thinks that my social life is that pathetic?_

Then it hit him that he literally knew nobody he could properly, and with expectation of an acceptance, invite to a Valentine's Day candlelight dinner at Taco Bell, let alone Berceuse.

OK, so she had a point there.


	2. Elevator Courage

Usual disclaimers: Wow, how I _wish_ that these characters were mine, the show would be so freakin' awesome, but they're not, yada yada

This is my response to the Valentine's Day Challenge on CCOAC. Given the fact that it's being written for SussiRay, the Queen of Elegant PWP, I've opted not to embarrass myself by trying to cover the same territory. So, T for language.

It is in four short chapters and will be posted in its entirety by February 14th

My assigned pairing, Hotchner and Prentiss

My assigned song prompt: "Physical," Olivia Newton-John

My assigned plot prompts: candlelight dinner, single red rose, lace underwear

**A Whole New Level of Pathetic**

**Chapter Two**

**Elevator Courage**

He yanked his briefcase and freshly-replenished post-Oregon go-bag from the back of the toy-strewn minivan – yes, in his off-hours he was exactly that much of a geeky dad – and began to trudge through the parking garage at Quantico.

He had given up trying to think of anyone who would go with him to Berceuse. In fact, he wasn't sure he wanted to go himself. It would be too much like dating, and Aaron hadn't even enjoyed the dating scene when he had been in it, in those brief months between puberty and meeting Haley.

_I don't actually know _how_ to date as an adult_, he realized glumly.

Soft-soled shoes sounded behind his right shoulder and he instinctively moved slightly to his left and turned. Even though the Bureau's own secure underground parking facility was one of the least likely venues for an ambush he could imagine, it was a survival habit. Everyone here did it, and nobody would think him a wimp for exercising caution.

It was Seaver, her long hair flying behind her in a ponytail, jogging along beside another equally blonde and athletic cadet. She seemed not even to have noticed Hotchner.

"I know," she was saying, "so I'm like, what a _loser_! You don't come weaseling around looking for a Valentine's Day date just a week before! A _week_! I mean, even if you _didn't_ have a date, would you _admit_ it?"

"Like painting a big neon sign on your back," her companion replied. "_Hello, I'm a loser and I don't care who knows it_."

"Yeah, like, _Here I am, Little Miss Needy. Won't you give me a little attention for the night?_"

"Or a pity fuck ..."

Seaver said "Ewwww," and giggled. The two made a sharp left and kept going on a jogging path of their own choosing. 

He recognized that he had long since slipped hopelessly into "loser" territory when he realized that his first internal response to that exchange had been a very-Spencer-Reid-worthy, _No, it wouldn't be a __neon__ sign; it would be a __fluorescent__ sign. You don't "paint" neon._

OK, Jess. Point taken. My social life is beyond pathetic.

_Garcia and Kevin_, he thought. Young and in love and with Lynch still only a part-timer at the Bureau and drowning in student loans, limited funds. He could quietly slip him the gift card to Berceuse. Maybe they could have a good time.

Solid, hard heels clicked behind him.

Again he shifted; again he turned, to see a vision in black – black hair, black clothing, black eyes, heavy black boots. Black mood sticking out all over, the slash of blood red at her mouth the only color visible.

"Emily!" he exclaimed, trying to sound pleased to see her. "I thought you were at Hoover this morning."

Her expression indicated that nothing had occurred between their phone conversation early in the morning and her appearance now to change anything at all. Even the long-stemmed red rose that she held in her fingers, swathed in white florist's tissue and bedecked with pink and red heart-shaped stickers, seemed inadequate to soften that deadly Prentiss glare.

_And people say that I look grouchy; good God, if Wednesday Addams had grown up to be an assassin, she would have looked a lot like Emily..._

"They rescheduled me," she all but snarled. She stabbed at the elevator button as though it were an UNSUB's midsection. Spotting the small aluminum waste container that was bolted to the wall, she folded her single red rose into fourths, gave it a violent twist, and discarded it without a backward glance. "Nice early warning, you know?"

"Hold the car!" a familiar voice panted. Aaron and Emily turned to see Kevin Lynch, tie flying and glasses sliding down his nose, sprinting for the elevator. Aaron pushed the Hold button so Kevin could catch up with them. "Oh, man," he wheezed as he entered the car. "I am running so late. Excuse me, let me catch my breath – up half the night finishing our costumes – hey, look, somebody threw away a perfectly good rose – jeez, somebody slaughtered it, choked the life right out of it ..."

"Leave it," Prentiss ordered. "It's from a creep."

Lynch pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Somebody you know?"

"Complete jerk," she confirmed. "And he doesn't understand 'No.' That's his fourth freaking rose this morning. Next twist will be to his neck. Hey, Hotch, we could get going now."

Oops.

He released the Hold button and the doors slid shut. 

"Costumes?" he said conversationally to Lynch.

"Yeah, absolutely – a huge CosPlay Valentine dance at the Mayflower, we've been planning this since, oh, God, last October," Kevin explained. "All-fics, cross-genre, it's huge." 

"Oh," Aaron said. It was a tough call which more discouraged him: that Kevin and Garcia already had firm plans, or that he didn't have the first clue what Lynch was talking about.

"The button?" Emily prompted sourly.

He pressed Four for them and Two for Lynch. Then he entertained a momentary image of twisting _her_ neck.

"Ooh, ooh!" Kevin said with unquenched enthusiasm, and began to perform a discreet boogie to the elevator music. "We love that song! Get physical, _physical, let's get into physical, Let me hear your body talk, your body talk ..._"

"I've always wondered about that," Hotchner said, although he wasn't sure why. Or to whom, for that matter. "I've always wondered why it's supposed to be romantic to hear somebody else's tummy rumbling."

Kevin was too deeply into warbling along with Olivia Newton-John even to notice what Aaron had said.

Prentiss shot him a dangerously sweet smile – or maybe she was thinking about eviscerating him; it wasn't always easy to tell the difference. Especially recently. Something weird going on with that girl, but she had managed to resist all his best Unit Chief attempts at sounding her out. "Not romantic," she cooed. "Erotic. Like … farting in the elevator."

Hotchner turned his head and bit down hard on his lip to keep from bursting into gales of anything that could get Emily Prentiss more annoyed.

That caught Kevin's attention. "You're disgusting," he told them. "Both of you. Don't take it out on us because you don't have – you know, like, actual _lives_. It isn't our fault." The door slid open and he hustled out as though one of them actually _had_ cut one in the elevator.

Hotchner wondered why it pissed him off so much that Lynch consistently referred to himself and Penelope as _us_, whether his more dramatic half was there or not, as though they had become some weird two-headed creature.

"God, the nerve of him," Emily said almost before the doors closed again. "Did you hear him? Implying that just because we're not, you know, skipping around singing idiotic songs that we haven't even bothered to listen to the words to, let alone analyze them, that somehow we don't have lives?"

_Screw this._

Nobody had ever doubted Aaron Hotchner's courage, or his ability to turn a confrontation to his advantage.

"Well," he said, "he sure nailed me."

Two dark eyes widened. "What, you're saying that you have no life?"

He shrugged. "Not much of one. Standing around with a gift card for dinner, trying to locate somebody so desperate that they have nothing better to do on Valentine's Day evening."

She looked him up and down, frowning. "You're messing with my head."

"Nope. Do _you_ have date?"

"I don't date anymore, Hotchner. I–" Whatever she had planned to say, she thought better of it. She looked him up and down again.

"With _you_?"

"No, with some other fucking random stranger at Quantico, Jesus, Prentiss–"

"What's in it for me?"

"Apart from dinner? Well – I promise not to give you any roses."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Wow. Dinner? With prime arm candy? No roses? You are _so_ on, mister."

He almost missed her assent as he stumbled repeatedly over three previous words.

Prime _what_? 


	3. Failed Relationships

Usual disclaimers: Wow, how I _wish_ that these characters were mine, the show would be so freakin' awesome, but they're not, yada yada

This is my response to the Valentine's Day Challenge on CCOAC. Given the fact that it's being written for SussiRay, the Queen of Elegant PWP, I've opted not to embarrass myself by trying to cover the same territory. So, T for language.

It is in four short chapters and will be posted in its entirety by February 14th

My assigned pairing, Hotchner and Prentiss

My assigned song prompt: "Physical," Olivia Newton-John

My assigned plot prompts: candlelight dinner, single red rose, lace underwear

**A Whole New Level of Pathetic**

**Chapter Three**

**Failed Relationships**

"So," Prentiss said, materializing out of nowhere to flop into one of his visitors' chairs, "where are we going for dinner? Are we talking Olive Garden, KFC, or the cafeteria over at Hoover?"

He glanced up, startled. "I didn't mention that? Sorry. Berceuse."

"Berceuse." Prentiss's eyes narrowed. "Jeez, Hotch – this isn't, like, a date-date, is it? Because I mean it, I don't do the dating thing anymore."

"No! No, of course not," he protested. "No, I told you the complete truth. I inherited this dinner gift certificate just a couple hours ago and–"

In retrospect, possibly he should not have looked quite as horrified as he did, but it seemed more to amuse Prentiss than to dismay her, because she leaned back and said, "And you really were just looking for another loser."

"I – wouldn't have phrased it quite that way," he told her carefully.

"Berceuse," she repeated dreamily. "Well, as it happens, I have the perfect dress for it." She began idly humming a tune to herself.

Although Hotchner couldn't identify it, he grew increasingly confident that he had heard the tune before. After wracking his brains fruitlessly for a minute, he said, "Excuse me, but what is that song?"

"_Oh! ne t'éveille pas encor_," she sang softly, which Aaron found no help at all. "_Berceuse," _she explained. "The lullabye from–"

"_Jocelyn_," Aaron blurted. "Of course. It was in my piano book when–"

Her face lit up. "Yes! _Thompson Two_. Or maybe _Three_."

"_Three_," he said with confidence. "It was the last piece I learned – well, started to learn; I only got through the first page, the intro thing–"

"Oh, my God, I had no idea you played piano–"

"I don't," he assured her. "It didn't take. I can barely manage 'Chopsticks' these days."

"It didn't take with me, either," she said. "Broke my mother's heart." She sat back and surveyed him almost smugly. "So – when are you picking me up?"

A moment's consideration. He hadn't even begun to think about the nuts and bolts of this dinner business. "Seven? The reservation's for eight, so–"

"Seven it is," she said. "I'll be on my best behavior." She stood up, smiled, and vanished. After she left, he realized that today was the first day he had seen her smile in – wow, must have been weeks. A couple months.

Was that all it took to bring back the old familiar Prentiss? Some non-shop talk and dinner? He would have to make sure that everyone on the team spent some time engaging in non-shop talk with Emily. And he would encourage the people she was closest to – Rossi, Morgan, Garcia – to see her outside of work.

He rose and walked to his interior window, where he could look out over the bullpen. He watched them, his other family, move and work, talk and laugh. He wondered what the other members of his team were doing, if anything, for Valentine's Day. Several of the ancillary services people had vivid bouquets or bunches of Mylar balloons brightening their work areas. Even Strauss sported an elaborate corsage of red and white roses.

_Ah, yes: roses._

A messenger from the Bureau's reception area came through the double glass doors of the BAU carrying a long, narrow box – another holiday floral delivery, no doubt. Civilians, even the most innoncent of consumer service personnel, were not permitted beyond the reception area of Quantico. They dropped their packages, and FBI employees carried them to their destinations.

It occurred to him that a floral box would be a good place to secrete a bomb. He wondered whether Valentine's offerings were X-rayed or otherwise examined for explosives.

The young woman making the delivery stopped at Emily Prentiss's carrel and presented her with the box.

Prentiss beamed and thanked the young woman. Just from watching her face, Hotchner could tell how warm and friendly her tone was. So – maybe all was forgiven with Mr. Single Perfect Red Rose?

No such luck.

The instant the messenger vanished back into the hallway, Emily removed the rose from the box, examined the card and wrappings, and dropped the flower, tissue and all, into the nearest shredder.

She just might have been happier with a bomb, he decided.

~ o ~

On the way home he had a sudden flash of panic that Jess would have mended fences with Lionel and would ask for the gift card back. Either that, or she would be furious that he was actually taking someone out.

But, no, Jess seemed delighted. "So," she said, "what are you gonna wear?"

_Just like a chick. It's all about the clothes._

"A suit." Refrained from adding, _duhhh._

"But which one?"

_Yeah, like I have a whole lot of creative latitude there. Gray, black, or navy. Light weight, winter weight. Last year's. This year's. Linen. Wool. Who cares?_

"What about that gray silk, the one that–"

He shook his head automatically.

"Oh, come on, Aaron, you look _fine_ in that suit–"

Yes, he did. Or at least, his wife had always told him so. It was a softer, lighter fabric, silvery gray, with pleated trousers. Haley, who could be far lustier and more outrageous than she let on to the rest of the world, would cup his crotch when he wore it and growl, _Mm, I just love it when I can see a little hint of your package. When all the girls can see some of your package, and they know that it's all mine, and that I'm not sharing..._

The team talked all the time about UNSUBs and their tendency to objectify their prey – but in small doses, from someone you loved and trusted, it could be pretty awesome to feel like – well, like a sex object.

"You're blushing," Jess said in a soft, sad voice.

"Am I." It wasn't a question. He turned away and busied himself with the coffee maker.

He missed her. And, oh, God, he missed the intimacy. For someone who really didn't like to be touched, he sure felt starved for a little physical contact right about now.

Seaver's words echoed in his mind, hers and her companion's. _Needy. Loser. Pity fuck._

In the end, Jessica picked out his whole, er, ensemble: the gray silk suit, a mocha silk shirt some boyfriend of hers had abandoned at her place, a tie courtesy of yet another former flame, with stripes of silver and rose and dark chocolate. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw not a well-dressed man, but the remains of three separate failed relationships.

~ o ~

"Holy shit," Emily Prentiss gasped when she opened her apartment door. "You clean up pretty nice, there, fella."

He said nothing because he was staring at her. Her hair was up, uncharacteristically soft, in loose tendrils. She wore some long, loose, gauzy kind of dress in variegated shades of coral and rose that was all gathered up around the bosom. He thought that he had heard Haley refer to that style as an empire waistline, but he was not about to volunteer that observation, lest he make an ass out of himself.

She looked, he decided, like a Greek or Roman goddess on an ancient frieze – elegant, noble, and confident.

_And I am sooo about to piss her off._

It had been Jessica's idea. No, insistence. Insistence as in Brooks Girl Standing Her Ground, which was pretty freaking daunting.

Almost holding his breath with dread, he thrust the small rectangular box into her hands.

"Flowers," he said in a flat, self-conscious voice. "Not roses. They were out of roses, thank God, because Jess was hell-bent on the damn things. Would you, uh, prefer to deposit them in a Dumpster behind Berceuse, or just stomp them here, in the privacy of your own home?"


	4. Aligned So Rare

Usual disclaimers: Wow, how I _wish_ that these characters were mine, the show would be so freakin' awesome, but they're not, yada yada

This is my response to the Valentine's Day Challenge on CCOAC. Given the fact that it's being written for SussiRay, the Queen of Elegant PWP, I've opted not to embarrass myself by trying to cover the same territory. So, T for language.

**This puppy is done!**

My assigned pairing, Hotchner and Prentiss

My assigned song prompt: "Physical," Olivia Newton-John

My assigned plot prompts: candlelight dinner, single red rose, lace underwear

**A Whole New Level of Pathetic**

**Chapter Four**

**Aligned So Rare**

His first mistake was asking to use her bathroom. There he was, standing there doing his stuff, minding his own business, when a demon from hell drilled into his back muscles. Taken by surprise, he roared, wheeled – barely avoiding piddling on Prentiss's bathroom counter top – and saw in the mirror a furry black imp of hell clinging to him like a succubus with fangs. Before he could get his arms bent around properly to free himself, the imp clambered the rest of the way up his jacket and settled itself contentedly on his left shoulder, where it wrapped its tail around his neck and began to wash its forepaws.

"Are you all right?" Prentiss called through the door.

"You got a cat," he shouted back. "A little warning would have been nice," he added as he tucked himself in and zipped. "Scared the living shit out of me."

"Well," she replied in serene tones, "at least you're in the right room for it."

He lifted the offending animal from his shoulder – resisting the temptation to drop it into the commode – _See how __you__ like surprises, little buddy_ – washed his hands, and joined Prentiss in the living room.

"Ooh, turn around," she said, "I hope he didn't snag anything on that nice coat."

"Not a problem," he growled. "I'm sure the blood will cover it."

"God, Hotch," she said with a wicked smile, "didn't know you could be such a baby. Poor little Sergio, he wasn't expecting anyone with shoulders that high."

He narrowed his eyes. "He jumps on your shoulders when you're using the can, too?"

"Yes," she said. _Way_ too much smugness in her tone. "But I don't stand up to pee." 

_OK, gonna be one of those nights ..._

Emily prowled from room to room, checking her windows, then set not one, but two alarm systems.

"What?" he said, watching her security efforts. "The attack cat isn't enough?"

"No," she said. Voice flat. No interest in humor there.

He recalled the first few weeks after the Reaper ambushed him in his apartment, when there was nothing he could do that would completely reassure him that he was safe, that George Foyet would not somehow manage to slip into the place like smoke and torture him all over again.

"Whatever works for you," he said, quietly, supportively.

A sad little look. "Thanks. I figured maybe you'd understand." She tucked her Glock and two extra magazines – _Two? She's expecting a major shootout?_ – into a large silver clutch purse, looked at her image, patted her hair, and said, "Ready as I'll ever be. Ooh, wait!"

She picked up the small white box he had given her. "Pin them on me?"

Feeling like a kid heading out to his first prom, he carefully attached the arrangement of three white camellias and a spray of little pink something-or-others over Emily's bosom.

"You know," she said conversationally, leaning her hip against the hall table to steady herself, "Marguerite Gauthier, the Lady of the Camellias, you know, in the Dumas novel? She wore white camellias to signal her availability–"

_Oh, Christ, figures there's something to hate about these damn flowers, too ..._

"–but red ones to signal the time of the month when she was … indisposed."

And, God help him, he blurted, "Jeez, I hope I got the right color."

_Why don't I just pin my tongue to the roof of my mouth and go home?_

She pushed him a few inches away from her by his shirtfront. "You know," she said in a low, sweet and measured tone, "if I didn't know that you're Aaron Hotchner, one of the smartest and bravest and most honorable men in the world, I would think I was going out to dinner with the Doofus of DC." 

He looked at her helplessly. "It, uh, might help your evening to think 'doofus,' because I just have no idea what's going on tonight."

"Come on," she said warmly. "Let's get a change of scenery."

He bowed slightly and opened the door. She checked the readout on both of her security systems before she left the apartment.

He told himself that she had more to worry about from going out with him than she had from any nameless assailants.

He hoped that he believed it.

She took his arm, and a small thrill ran through him, part excitement, part fear.

Excitement, because nobody had taken his arm in, oh, four years, other than his mother and his mother-in-law, and then only at the church and at the funeral. Cuddling with Jack was great, but he ached for physical contact with an adult, a female adult.

Fear, because he was positive that he was emanating "needy" pheromones as steadily and obviously as a plug-in room deodorizer puts out cinnamon scent.

"So do you hate all Olivia Newton-John, or just getting physical and getting animal?" Prentiss asked.

"I don't think so," he said, then he realized that his answer sounded ambiguous. "Haley had her _Best Of_ album, played it a lot. Some of it was OK.

"_Magic_," he added, although that had actually been Haley's favorite, not his own. He couldn't remember which song it was he had liked best off the album, other than it had been from _Grease_. And Haley had teased him that it proved what a shallow guy he was.

"'Planets aligned so rare, there's promise in the air, and I'm guiding you'," he sang softly. "I liked that."

"That's nice." She squeezed his arm and he almost thanked her.

~ o ~

Dinner passed without incident. Their Chateaubriand was done to perfection. The Amaretto cheesecake was neither too sweet nor too heavy. They talked of Bureau politics and Bureau personnel, took brief side excursions into what's-the-best-band-ever and which movie was the biggest waste of money of the past year. They drank just a little bit more wine than they probably should have, but Hotchner felt that he could get them home without disaster.

Well, all right, there _was_ Prentiss's trip to the rest room. As she returned, eyes followed her, and the faces reflected restrained amusement rather than admiration.

Aaron rose and met her standing up. "If you would be so kind as to turn a little to your left," he murmured.

"Oh, no! Oh, tell me that I didn't–"

"You did," he whispered. "No harm done. Smile and look as though you planned it that way." He reached as delicately as he could into her white lace panties and began to withdraw the skirt of her dress.

"All of it?" she moaned softly. "Not just a little tiny tuck?"

In reply he ran his hand across her right buttock as he tugged, so she would understand exactly how exposed she had been. "Let them think you did it deliberately, to, um, titillate your friend," he said. 

"Oh, shit." She glanced down and turned her ankles so she could check the bottoms of her shoes for trailed toilet tissue. "Well, clear on that one," she sighed. "What in the world must you be thinking of me?"

_Hell, I'm in trouble already …_

He nudged her gently. "That you're the perfect companion for the Doofus of DC?"

~ o ~

When they pulled up in front of her building in the apartment complex, she hung back. Aaron felt sure she would ask him to escort her to the door, given her security consciousness lately, but what she said was, "I really like your car, Hotch."

He blinked. "Really?" Thinking, _Uh-huh._ _Two year old green minivan with a ding in the front right door and a permanent odor of coffee and Happy Meals. Yeah, definitely a babe magnet._

"It's grounded," she said. "It's real-people, real-lives." She seized his wrist with unexpected firmness. "You have to come upstairs with me, Hotch." 

"I'd planned to," he assured her. Thinking, _Real-people, real-lives, as opposed to … what, for Christ's sake?_

She kept her vise-grip on his wrist the entire ride up the elevator. Some guy gave him the old, _Hey, gettin' lucky, huh?_ look and for the briefest of instants he considered signaling for help, just in case the pressures of work had turned Emily Prentiss from a protector into a predator. It had happened. Not in the BAU. Not yet, anyway. But the law enforcement world. There could be a fine line between intense focus and full-blown psychopathy.

"Wait here," she hissed as she unlocked her door. She nudged him firmly against the wall in case he had not picked up on her meaning.

She reset her alarms, then withdrew her Glock from her purse. She bent down and picked up Sergio, then, cat in one hand, semiautomatic in the other, she proceeded to prowl through every room in her unit. Aaron understood the gut-wrenching paranoia; he had been there. He just couldn't figure out the advantage to the cat.

Finally she returned. She sighed and released Sergio and invited Aaron into the living room.

_Wait: She went on a solo recon and took her cat, but left me behind? I think I should feel insulted._

"You probably wonder what this is all about," she said.

Probably," he agreed.

"Here, sit. Here on the couch." She sat down beside him.

"Hotch, there are forces out there, forces you don't know anything about. Forces you _can't_ know anything about." She inclined her head and looked deep into his eyes. "I know, I know. You think I've snapped. But listen.

"Very soon, maybe within a few weeks, I'll be leaving the BAU. I don't know whether I'll be coming back. I don't know whether I'll – anyway, some bits and pieces of my past have come back to bite me in the ass. I have to leave to deal with this stuff. I also have to make sure that nobody tries to get to me through one of you."

Oddly enough, this discourse set his mind at ease on one aspect of her behavior. He knew that she probably wasn't crazy. He already knew that she had done things in her past that she didn't talk about."

"Emily," he said gently, "is there anything I can do?"

She looked at him with mournful eyes. "Aaron, I know you. You'd go stand between me and the gates of hell on sheer bloody principle. But you can't. This is a situation where unless you know what's going on and who the players are, you're more of a hindrance than a help. And there is no way that you'll know that. And here's the critical thing: _You don't want to know. Trust me_."

Her face was so sorrowful that he brushed back the unfamiliar curls off her brow and smiled. "I always suspected that your clearance was higher than mine," he said. 

"You're sweet," she said, unexpectedly. Her eyes dropped and her voice became unsteady. "And there's – stuff I want to do, to – you know, because I don't know whether I'm coming back." And he would have asked her whether she meant "not coming back" as in "no returning to work" or "not going to survive," except he was dead sure what her answer would have been.

"Anything," he assured her.

"Anything?" She actually held his face in her hands and stared at him.

The challenge in her manner unsettled him, but he decided to ride with it. "Anything, Prentiss."

She bit her lip. "Are you, um, familiar with the concept of the, um, pity fuck?"

It took him a few seconds to find his voice. "Would a '_Let's do it because you are one hot woman and I'm lonely and crazy and pretty damn desperate'_ fuck do?"

She blinked. "Wait. So, like, I'm supposed to pity _you_?"

He shrugged. "It could work."

~ o ~

With the voice of sanity somewhere in his head (and maybe in hers) screaming _Stupid! Stupid!_ they fumbled with buttons and ties and zippers, both of them stunmbling over their random pile of shoes and clothing, barely getting to her bed before they collapsed in a feral frenzy.

She was ferocious, voracious, and obsessed with hickeys, which was fine, because he didn't want a relationship; he wanted to fill the miserable spaces in his skin. And he'd been known to inflict the odd love bite himself.

They panted, moaned, and wheezed in a wordless tangle.

Until, almost an hour later, she gave a sudden harsh, animal cry muffled against his shoulder.

"Hey," he whispered, struggling up on one elbow. "did I just hear your body talk?"

She broke into breathless giggles, smacking feebly at him with open hands, groaning, "No, no, no! Don't make me laugh, don't make me laugh!"

~ o ~

He tiptoed into his house shortly before two. Jess was asleep on the couch, her latest afghan-in-progress clutched in her hands. Playing at low volume on the TV was another of those interminable crime show marathons that she insisted on watching no matter how often he explained that they were laughably unrealistic.

He hoped just to pass her by, but when the door closed, Jess opened her eyes immediately. "Oh, hi," she said sleepily. "Have a good time?" Then, "Oh, my God, looks like somebody got his ashes hauled."

And like a complete idiot he checked his fly, _Why not just shout it from the frickin housetops_? _Make it your FaceBook status, as if you had a FaceBook account:_ _Yo, got laid tonight_. He tried to make some undifferentiated could-mean-anything noise, but Jess was having none of it. She sat straight up, and even muted the TV. "Good for you!" she squealed. "It's about time!"

Women.

He fled to the privacy of his bedroom, where he stripped and stared at himself in the mirror. Shoulders too narrow. Abs and pecs poorly defined, not to mention that uncontrollable body hair. And the scars. God, always the scars. Monuments to his helplessness. Scars hidden in thickets of chest hair, even uglier.

But then there were the new marks.

Six – no, seven. No, eight. Eight purple rings still darkening on his torso, arms, and thighs, and that was just what was visible on the front. There were more on his back, but he wasn't sure how many. Clear and present evidence that, somehow, in spite of everything, he could still drive a woman into a carnal frenzy. And however many there were on his body, he knew that he had planted an equal number on Emily Prentiss's delicious alabaster skin.

"Let's get animal," he crooned softly to himself, "animal, I want to get animal, let's get into animal ..." If he had thought for an instant that he could dance, he would have done a little boogie.

As he slipped between the sheets – buck naked for the first time since, oh, his first year of marriage, probably – he found himself grinning.

Being pathetic had its advantages.


End file.
